


Crash, Don't Burn

by zjemciciastko



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Angst, Argentina 2018, Hopeful ending?, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 17:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14266512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjemciciastko/pseuds/zjemciciastko
Summary: Argentina 2018, after the race.





	Crash, Don't Burn

“You wanted me to come alone so here I am.”

Valentino doesn’t manage to shut the door before Marc shoves his foot between it and the frame. It hits Marc’s sneaker, the blaring red that stands out even in the darkness of the hotel corridor, and remains open even when Valentino puts more strength into pushing it.

It’s pointless, he already knows, so he lets go and doesn’t suppress the small surge of satisfaction when Marc stumbles forward and almost lands on the floor. 

Not turning back, he goes further inside the room, not caring whether Marc is following him or not. A lot of his frustration has left already, but it’s still there and ready to flare up again the moment Marc says one wrong thing. He suspects it won’t take long.

Marc stands next to the door frame of the room, his against the wall. He hasn’t lost a bit of his confidence, shoulders straight, chest puffed, ready for a fight. “I tried to apologize earlier. Uccio didn’t let me.” 

An accusation can be clearly heard and Valentino’s suspicions prove to be right that exact moment.

“Good thing he was there,” he states, voice low and harsh. “I probably wouldn’t have been so nice to you.” 

The thoughts going through his head back then had been much worse than those that made it to the interview. It was bad enough with all the cameras pointed at the box, but Marc appearing with even more people by his side, more eyes turned to them, only added fuel to the fire. The adrenaline from the race, the rage prompted by the end of it, it was a truly explosive mixture.

Marc ignores the statement, without a flinch. He’s pulling on his shirt when he makes his point, the Honda labelled one, stepping forward the decrease the distance between them.“You were young too. You made mistakes.”

“That’s true,” Valentino agrees. There’s no denying it. “But do my past mistakes make yours okay? Make it okay to do however you please?”

Marc remains silent. His shoulders are no longer straight and the wrinkle between his eyebrows has smoothed, eyes still harsh but no longer set in a glare. He looks small, smaller than usual, and if not for the sharpness of his jaw and the muscles Valentino knows are hidden behind the clothes, he could be mistaken for a kid. Looking like one and as stubborn as one. 

Valentino knows it’s a point for him. Somehow, it doesn’t bring him any satisfaction. 

A minute later he’s ready to throw Marc out, too tired to deal with this. With everything. With anything. Goodness, how he hopes for that weekend to finally end. But the luck is not in his favour.

Standing on the tips of his toes in an attempt to make himself look taller, Marc spews the sentences on one breath. “Do you really think I made you crash purposefully? Do you?”

_Do you really think I’m like that?_

Does he?

“I don’t know. You tell me,” Valentino barks back, trying to counter the attack hidden in Marc’s voice. He pauses, eyes rounding and eyebrows rising when a thought hits him suddenly. “Was this your revenge for Sepang?”

The words are coming out automatically, more, harsher, bitter. He wouldn’t have thought Marc would be capable of that. Of purposefully endangering the health and lives of multiple riders in a span of twenty-four laps, a little more than a hundred kilometres. But after that race, he’s no longer sure of anything when it comes to Marc.

The growl Marc lets out is a mixture of anger and hurt, fury and pain lacing smoothly into a low sound. “Fuck you.” Gripping the material of Valentino’s shirt, he repeats it a few more times. “Fuck you. Fuck you, Valentino,” he screams, not controlling his emotions anymore.

Valentino’s ready to retaliate, a string of his own profanities already prepared at the tip of his tongue. Only, he doesn’t get to, because Marc’s pushing into him, nails digging into Valentino’s shoulders, teeth sinking into his lips, mouth moulding against his. Valentino isn’t sure if Marc’s trying to kiss him or bite him or whatever he’s currently trying to do. It’s so bizarre Valentino’s thinking turns off and instead, his instincts fall into its place, his body moving without the brain commanding it to. 

They stumble on the way to the bed, elbows hitting the walls and soon-to-be bruises forming, discolouring their skin. Neither of them sure whether it’s Marc pulling or Valentino pushing, the pillows flying when they land on the sheets. 

“Fuck you,” Marc repeats once more, tearing the hem of Valentino’s t-shirt when he’s trying to take it off. 

Palming him through the underwear, filled with a strange sense of pride after breaking the zipper of Marc’s pants, Valentino answers, knowing it will irk Marc further. “No. Actually, fuck you.”

Marc bites his lower lip particularly hard after that. 

It doesn’t take much time for Valentino to be buried in Marc’s body, both of them moaning, gripping the sheets and moving almost in sync. The springs in the mattress squeak under their weight, and Valentino’s rather proud of himself when Marc stills in his hold, the pleasure getting the better of him. Soon, he’s there too, falling on the bed heavily, no energy left.

They lay in silence, only broken by the sound of their exhales, unsure what to do now.

Valentino wipes his hand on the sheet, frowning and trying to order his thoughts into something. Anything. “One mistake can happen in a race. But not so many.” He tries to flick the lighter, but the fire stubbornly refuses to appear. All the malice evaporated from him and now there’s only exhaustion in its place. “One day you’ll find yourself involved in an accident where someone gets seriously hurt.”

The _or worse_ doesn’t make it through his too tight throat. 

He blinks, eyelids fluttering rapidly. Not sure if to block the memories, forcefully trying to push into the front of his mind, or the stinging, growing in strength in the corners of his eyes. It’s all too much for one day. 

Sighing, he moves onto his back, speaking more to the stain on the ceiling than to Marc. “Seriously. What were you thinking?”

The reply is there immediately. The sheets rustle and that’s how he knows Marc moved, but even without that, he could’ve sensed the heat radiating from Marc’s body, closer and warmer than a moment ago. 

“I wasn’t.”

This, Valentino can believe in. 

That’s all that’s said, no excuses to add to the sentence. Nothing more. It’s probably starting to sink in now, Valentino guesses, what Marc did and what he could’ve done, the damage he could’ve caused. The consequences his poor choices could’ve made. He grips the pillow, fluffing it up so it supports his neck better, and once again hoping this is some awful dream and the race actually never happened. 

“I’m sorry.”

This time the voice is small. Wet. Barely heard, even though no other sounds reach either of them, the room encompassed by the silence of the night. Marc’s nose must be full, judging by the way he speaks. 

Valentino moves to lay on his right side, props chin on his elbow. He’s searching, looking if there’s any honesty to what’s leaving Marc’s lips or if it’s only emptiness packed into a pretty word. “Okay. I accept your apology,” he says after a moment, the judgement done, head hitting the pillow softly. His eyelids are begging to close on their own.

Sitting up, Marc stretches, one of his joints cracking. “Good.”

The view Valentino gets, purple bruises on Marc’s neck and the thin red lines running down the tanned back, pleases him immensely. “Good,” he agrees. As good as it can be. For now, at least. 

The conversation seems to be over as Marc rises and then crouches, picking up the wrinkled pants and the shirt that hardly reminds what it used to be an hour ago. A shadow of what it used to be. He pats the ground repeatedly, obviously looking for something else, but without success.

The fabric Valentino holds between his index finger and thumb sways when he flicks his wrist. “You’re looking for this?” Marc’s underwear, the red, _race one,_ looks no better than the rest of his clothes, covered in all kinds of folds and creases. Valentino pulls on the band, examining it as it stretches between his fingers. 

“Yes.” Marc turns, trying to snatch it away. “Thanks.”

Instead of actually giving the garment to him, Valentino throws it to the nearest chair, observing as it hangs halfway in the air. Before Marc can voice any protest, he pulls himself upwards, the duvet sliding down his chest and pooling in the lap. “My plane doesn’t leaving until the afternoon,” he shares, as matter-of-factly as he can manage. 

It comes from nowhere, his brain-to-mouth filter off. 

Marc freezes, the shirt caught on his ears for a moment, until he pulls it down his torso fully. “Really?” The disbelief has taken over his whole face and he looks kind of funny. Had the circumstances been different, Valentino would’ve laughed. Today, he doesn’t feel like it. 

Valentino shrugs. At this point, he’s not thinking clearly anymore.

Walking up to Marc, his fingers catch the edges of the wrinkled mess that’s covering Marc’s body. “Really.” He pulls it upwards, and Marc lets him, muscles losing the tension for it to be possible. 

In bed, they’re not spooning or cuddling or anything of the sort. But, their shoulders are pressed against each other and Valentino can smell Marc’s cologne, hitting his nose. 

It’s obvious Marc’s preparing before he finally speaks, tongue swiping over his lips multiple times in that habit of his. “What now?”

_What, indeed._

Valentino can’t tell. It’s all still too fresh, still too much and thinking about it is the last thing his tired mind wants to do right now. There are too many question marks, so many uncertainties, and possibly this whole angry/make-up sex biting them in the ass, but there’s something he’s sure he doesn’t need. Uccio’s disapproval or not. 

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t pretend to know. “Not another war, I hope.”

“Not another,” Marc confirms, stretching a hand out. There’s some trembling, shakiness showing up in Marc’s fingers, a bit too much to be natural. Marc’s palm as hot as it was when it was sliding on his body, Valentino notices when his digits wraps around it firmly. 

A brief pause before the real issue shows up. 

“Do you really think I made you crash on purpose?”

The question appears for the second time, ringing in Valentino’s ears loudly. “No.” Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t. He admits, he’s not proud of that comment, perhaps an unnecessary one. Being reckless one thing, accusing Marc of bowling, other riders playing the part of the skittles, another. He yawns, fighting the tiredness and almost losing. “And I hope you never will.” 

He can already imagine the backlash both of them will get from the media, from the fans when they get up in the morning, but for now he refuses to think about. It can wait. And for now, he’s okay with the duvet being pulled over his frame and not worrying what the next day may bring. 

“I’ll be more careful,” Marc promises and it’s the last thing Valentino hears before he’s enveloped in the dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Disappointment is all I have to say about what happened. This story is...I don't know, I might take it down later, I'm not sure. However, I still hope you can enjoy it, if you read it.  
> I'm also super sorry for not being active. Life's been pretty hectic, I promise to answer the comments and also comment on the stories!
> 
> (And I hope someone brings them both on the right track, pun intended.)
> 
> Thank you <3


End file.
